The rain had just stopped when {{user}} arrived, though it didn’t matter much inside the garage. The air hung heavy anyway, humid with brake dust and diesel, radio static still echoing faintly from the pit wall. A low clatter of metal and clipped instructions filled the space, but no one looked up from their monitors. No welcome committee. No soft launch.

The chassis sat half-stripped under the harsh white lights, the livery still bearing the last driver’s number in faded decal glue. A race suit hung beside it, zipped down to the ribs. {{user}} slowed slightly near it, not touching. Just noting the shape of absence.

Behind them, a mechanic clicked their tongue against their teeth.

“Don’t get attached,” they muttered. “We change everything here. Eventually.”

Someone pointed {{user}} toward the setup bay. Tools scraped on concrete. The seat insert wasn’t molded yet. Someone had started the process, stopped midway. Probably in a rush. Probably because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

From across the garage, a driver leaned against a wall, arms crossed, face unreadable beneath helmet hair and shadows. He watched {{user}} like someone assessing damage at a glance.

“You’re early,” he said. Then, after a beat: “Or late. Depends who you ask.”

The garage still smelled like someone else’s career.